most important thing of all. Or maybe the most important thing was that I had been sure—absolutely certain—that I had loved him. Or maybe that I might have still loved him. Or maybe all that was obvious. * Because they were medical students, my boyfriend’s friends ordered French toast and eggs Benedict. They both ordered coffee drinks, the fancy kind with chocolate. My boyfriend ordered an omelet, and there was a tense moment before I ordered the same. Then the friends stepped outside to smoke—Everything we’re not supposed to do! they said. So we can tell our patients not to with authority!—and my boyfriend asked me if I thought they were a couple. I can’t tell, he said, slumping in the booth. I thought you might be able to. You want me to ask? I said. No, he said. Maybe. When they came back inside, I asked. They laughed. Did you tell her to do that? the girl squealed at my boyfriend. She elbowed the other guy, then rested her head on his shoulder, then pulled back and laughed like it was all a joke. She sat with her hands between her knees while we waited, but nabbed a bit of egg off his plate when the food came. You eat eggs now? my boyfriend said, and they all laughed. Why, does it make you woozy? she said, and everyone except my boyfriend laughed. She turned to me but nodded at my boyfriend. Twinkle Toes got sick over the cadaver the other day, she explained. Thought he was going to pass out and turn into a vegetarian, didn’t we? she and the other boy laughed again. Hitler was a vegetarian, I said. He only had one testicle, I said, trying to make the first thing I said sound more normal.
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